


Scapegoat

by TheManicMagician



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Episode Ignis Verse 2, Self-Flagellation, The boys have been through a lot, some world-building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: “King Noctis?”He barely holds back a sigh—had ten minutes alone been too much to ask?—and forces an amicable smile on his face.He turns to greet the newcomer. And freezes.A man he’s never met has the barrel of a gun trained on his chest.





	Scapegoat

Insomnia is slow to recover. The crown city had been ravaged during the clash between Niflheim and the Old Wall. After Insomnia fell, the empire held the city but did not maintain it, instead letting the infrastructure crumble, leaving it all to rot. Then came a decade of darkness, and the city became home to daemons and animals, as well as a handful of humans too concerned with living day to day to concern themselves with burst pipes and rubble in the streets.

Noctis had hesitated, at first. He’d done all that’d been asked of him. With the help of his brothers, he’d given Ardyn peace at last, and returned light to the world. Surely, no one would begrudge him the choice to tuck himself away in some quiet part of the world and let everything continue on without him.

But then they’d returned to Hammerhead, the morning sun at their backs.

The gathered scraps of the crownsguard had wept—even Cor’s eyes were suspiciously damp. They’d knelt before him, pressed their lips to his knuckles and called him Majesty. At once, there were volunteers to patrol the city, people scrambling to summon their families from wherever they were holed up, talk of the equipment that’d be required for the rebuild. No one could even fathom that Noctis would want anything otherwise. With the empire in shambles, they needed a stability to their world that only he could provide. It would be selfish and cruel of him to leave them now.

And so he stayed.

News of the king’s return spread throughout Lucis. In the weeks that followed, people entered the city in a steady stream. Some were eager to reclaim their lost homestead; others just sought security. Noctis threw himself wholeheartedly into the revitalization efforts among his people, becoming just another pair of hands sifting through the rubble. Tensions ran high initially, Lucians unhappy with the Niflheim refugees working alongside them. Noctis nipped that enmity in the bud, shaming them into better behavior. He meant what he’d promised Prompto, all those years ago in the keep; he craved above all a unity between the nations, so nothing like the war between Lucis and Niflheim ever happens again.

Once they’d cleared the streets enough that cars could make it through to the Citadel and back, his coronation was held. The ceremony was less fanciful than those past for want of resources, but they made due with what they had. His father should have been the one to place the crown onto his head, but the duty instead fell to Cor, the last remnant of King Regis’ reign. On the steps of the Citadel, the newly-crowned King Noctis pledged himself to his people, to rule and protect them as best he was able.

The coronation ceremony had been televised. Now with tangible proof of his ascension, emissaries were quick to reach out to establish alliances. Ravus surprised him by being the first to step forward and pledge Tenebrae’s loyalty and assistance with Insomnia’s recovery efforts.

Reluctantly, Noctis began to sequester himself from the physical, tangible aspects of the rebuild effort. He turned his focus inward, to learn what it meant to be king. The Citadel, miraculously, had been left largely untouched all this time. Sure, windows were smashed out here and there, but its resources had been left mostly intact. Noctis spent countless hours holed up in the library, pouring over books on past treaties and tactics. He wasn’t about to risk his ignorance ruining the peace everyone had sacrificed so much for.

Today they’re holding a reception in one of the Citadel’s ballrooms for visiting dignitaries from Lestallum. The thought of that still throws him. Ten years ago, Lestallum had been a lively but small city, nothing next to Insomnia. His friends had caught him up to speed on how the city had evolved into much more of a city-state. Lestallum’s reactor made it uniquely suited as a hub for safety in a world of darkness, and it’s now six times the size it’d been when he’d last visited it. With Lestallum’s proximity to Insomnia, it’s imperative they become firm partners in trade.

Insomnia will be as grand as it once was, but to get there, the capital city needs all the aid it can get. So Noctis puts on his most pleasant smile and mingles with the people of influence from Lestallum.

This gala is a mockery of what such parties used to look like. But they simply don’t have the supplies and reserves yet for anything better. Instead of caviar, there’s fish caught fresh from the reservoir. Instead of fizzy champagne, they’re serving wine that they’d raided from some deep cellar in the Citadel. Staff had dusted the bottles for hours to make them look “vintage” instead of ancient.

All the diplomats Noctis speaks with are gracious enough not to comment on Insomnia’s sluggish pace of improvement, instead taking pains to praise the empire’s defeat and Noctis’ return.

Noctis has to be very careful with his words. Since his return, people have seen King Noctis Lucis Caelum the Lightbringer first, and Noct second. Attendants trail in his footsteps, hoping to glean some blessed wisdom, imitating his every mannerism. At the tail end of a meeting he’d lamented offhandedly to Ignis that he missed skittles. Days later, a veritable mountain of the sugary candy was delivered to the Citadel. He’d been touched, but also kind of embarrassed. He kept a few packets despite Ignis’ grumblings, and gave the rest to the children.

Gods, there are so many of them. Not babes, not yet; it’s been five months since dawn returned. But teenagers and toddlers are aplenty, war orphans. They first wandered the broken streets as the adults worked, unsure what to do or where to go. Noctis seized an old college dormitory to house them in, and there were many volunteers to teach and care for them. Noctis makes a point to visit them once a week with “Uncle Prompto”.

Noctis withdraws from a droning conversation with a trade magnate. The man doesn’t let him leave until he presses a kiss to Noctis’ knuckles with his rubbery lips. Noctis fights the urge to wipe his hand on his sleeve. He’s still not used to being treated with such reverence. He’s unworthy of it, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Needing some air, Noctis ducks out of the ballroom and into the hall. He should probably notify Gladio, at least, that he’s stepping out. But Gladio would insist on tagging along, and he needs solitude even from his Shield right now. He passes through an antechamber that leads out to a balcony.

He tests the railing’s strength, and, once assured it won’t collapse at the slightest touch, he leans his weight against it, staring out at the view. The crispness of the wind is refreshing. He closes his eyes, just taking a moment to revel in the breeze that stirs his hair.

“King Noctis?”

He barely holds back a sigh—had ten minutes alone been too much to ask?—and forces an amicable smile on his face.

He turns to greet the newcomer. And freezes.

A man he’s never met has the barrel of a gun trained on his chest.

Noctis’ hand twitches, but he doesn’t call forth his Engine Blade from the armiger. He wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Put the gun down,” Noctis commands, more confident than he feels. He risks a glance over the man’s shoulder. There’s no one coming. Inexplicably, no one noticed his absence yet, or they have, and aren’t sure where he’s run off to. “You don’t have to do this.”

A laugh tears out of the man. It’s a broken, hollow thing. He holds the gun in both hands, and reaffirms his grip.

“On the contrary. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for six years.”

Noctis has to keep him talking as long as he can. He takes the slightest step forward, so small as to not draw the man’s attention. Disarming methods had been drilled into his head when he was a child as a precaution. If he can just get close enough…

“In what way have I wronged you?” Noctis asks.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Your Majesty.” He spits the title like a curse. “You left us in the darkness for _ten years_.”

“I needed time to prepare—”

“Sarah didn’t have time!” He yells over Noctis. “Gods only know where you were, but for us common folk, every hour of every day was a struggle to survive. All the crops died in the first months, do you understand that? My Sarah…” He sobs. “I had no money. Nothing to barter. The rations weren’t near enough. She was whittled down to nothing when her heart gave out. Her skin hung off her bones like paper. And you want us to worship you now? For sauntering in like the last ten years never happened? It’s your fault she’s dead, that _thousands_ are dead from the Long Night.”

“I don’t want to be worshiped, or anything of that sort.” Noctis is so, so close now. Just two more steps. His heart beats frantically in his ears. “Believe me when I say I never intended to be away for so long.”

“I’m not here to listen to your excuses.” His finger tightens on the trigger. “I’m here for Sarah.”

“Wait, please—”

Noctis lunges for the gun, but he’s too slow.

There’s a loud _bang_ as the gun goes off, then all Noctis hears is a ringing whine. Red blooms from the center of his chest. His killer stares at him, face pale, seemingly shocked that he’s actually done it. Then he spins on his heel and flees, leaving Noctis to die alone.

He has minutes, at most. He thinks he should probably feel more frantic about the concept of dying, but instead a calm resignation settles on his shoulders. He’d made his peace with his death once before, when he’d been so sure fulfilling his destiny would cost his life. His knee aches, along with his chest, so he slides down onto the floor. He presses his side against the railing of the balcony, so he can look out at Insomnia below. It’s late, and dark, so he can’t see too much detail, just the bright lights of the buildings. It reminds him of the city’s halcyon days, and he can almost pretend he’s twenty again, looking out on the cityscape at night, everyone he loves still alive.

Maybe this is the divine hand of the Astrals; save for Shiva, they hadn’t been pleased when he’d cheated the poetic death they’d laid out for him. So they’d stuck him with the next end they could find, five months later. At least death by assassination isn’t too terribly ignoble.They could’ve been proper assholes about it and given him a heart attack on the toilet, or something.

No, this isn’t bad at all. He was able to bring the dawn back, and he knows his friends will get on fine without him. They’ve all been doing so well, had done so well without him all these long years. They don’t need him. Perhaps they never did.

Noctis is so tired. He closes his eyes and drifts.

~*~

Prompto is doing his absolute damndest to appear like he belongs here. Noctis would never think of excluding him, but still, he lacks the lessons on etiquette that had been drilled into Gladio and Ignis since they were kids, and he’d never attended parties like this when Noct was prince. He feels supremely out of place amidst this glittering crowd, even with his freshly pressed and tailored uniform. The last thing he wants to do is stick his foot in his mouth and cause some sort of scandal with the visiting dignitaries, so he keeps to himself on the fringe of the activity, gripping the glass of wine in his hands like a lifeline.

He watches Noctis make a slow circuit of the room, taking the time to speak with everyone. In high school he’d bemoaned his royal duties, had skipped state dinners against his father’s will to play video games with Prompto in his pajamas. It’s difficult to reconcile that bratty prince with the regal king Noctis has grown into. Ten years in the crystal have tempered his spirit, brough to the surface the noble qualities that Noctis used to shield behind an indifferent, sullen attitude. Prompto’s stupidly proud of him.

Noctis’ gaze finds him across the room. Prompto waves unthinkingly, then yelps as he accidentally sloshes wine onto his sleeve. The smirk the king flashes him is all Noct.

Prompto scuttles over to the buffet. He wets a napkin and tries to scrub the wine out of the cuff before it can set.

“That will definitely stain.” Ignis says, appearing over his shoulder and confirming his fears.

While Prompto feels out of place, Ignis, on the contrary, looks right at home. This is the kind of environment he was raised to work in. Running around all of Lucis hunting demons and gathering the blessings of the Astrals had been an unprecedented departure from his intended duties.

Prompto gives up on saving his sleeve, and rolls it up half an inch instead to hide the damp discoloration. It exposes the black band of his bracelet beneath, but there’s no prickle of anxiety. The guys know what he is, where he came from, and they’d accepted him easily. He hides the barcode now to avoid having to explain himself to strangers, but if it comes off, he’ll deal with it.

“How are things going out there?” Prompto gestures to the crowd before them.

“I’m cautiously optimistic,” Ignis says, which is Ignis-speak for _fucking ecstatic._ “Insomnia doesn’t have too much yet in the way of resources to offer for trade, but considering Noct is the one who ended the Long Night, they are all too happy to supply any aid they can in thanks.” His smile is wry. “They want to get in the good graces of the Gods’ champion, as it were. In case he has a few more miracles up his sleeve.”

Noctis had sat them all down after they’d killed Ardyn. He still retains the Ring of the Lucii and the Crystal, but the covenants with the Gods have expired. They can use magic as they wish, but otherwise they are on their own now. If people are expecting Noctis to display the Gods like a party trick, they’ll be waiting a long while.

They both stiffen at the sound of a sharp bang. A gunshot?

The partygoers cry out in panic. Cor jumps to take charge, ordering crownsguard to the doors.

“Have you seen Noct?” Gladio suddenly appears in front of them, looking frazzled.

Prompto glances back to where he’d last seen his friend, but he isn’t there. He looks around the room, searching for the telltale glint of a crown, for a flash of black and gold. They just heard a gun go off, and he _can’t find Noct_.

Without another word exchanged, the trio tear off towards the source of the gunshot. They run through a hallway, and take a turn into an antechamber that leads out to a balcony.

As Gladio shoves open the door to the antechamber, a man shouts, and tries to bring the butt of his gun down on Gladio’s head. Gladio is faster and stronger. He delivers one swift punch to the man’s face, hard enough to crack his jaw. Dazed, the man lets the gun slip free from his hand. Gladio drives him to the floor, and keeps him pinned with his knee.

“I’ve got him. Check on Noct!”

A set of glass doors divide the room from its balcony. Prompto lets out a low moan of fear, hand coming to his mouth in horror. Noctis is slumped against the railing, his raiment soaked through with blood.

Ignis beats him there by seconds, yanking open the glass door and sliding to his knees before his king.

Noctis’ eyes are closed, his face impossibly pale.

“Is he—?”

Ignis presses a pair of shaking fingers to Noctis’ neck.

“Still alive. He doesn’t have long—we need a phoenix down. _Now_.”

“On it.” Prompto says, and bolts from the room.

He runs as fast as he can, crashing around corners, bowling people over. Noctis is barely clinging to life. After—After he _dies_ , because he _will_ die, because none of them had been paying enough attention, they’ll have ten minutes at the absolute maximum to get the phoenix feather into Noctis. Any longer, and they’ll be too late.

And of course, of fucking course they none of them have any phoenix downs on hand. They hadn’t wanted to bother Noctis with restocking the armiger, not when he was so busy with everything else. They have a handful of phoenix downs stored in the hospital wing of the Citadel, in case of a dire emergency. Not one of them had thought to slip one into the armiger tonight, because who would dare attack the king in his own home, surrounded by his closest confidants?

Even though that’s exactly how King Regis had died. Gods, even after everything they’ve been through, they’re still a bunch of idiots.

Prompto skids to a stop in front of an elevator bank, and jams the button to call an elevator repeatedly. He itches to just take the stairs, but as slow as the elevator seems, it’ll be faster.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and Prompto is inside and pressing the close door button before it finishes. He takes the half a minute of the elevator’s descent to catch his breath, and plan out the path he’ll take from the elevator that’ll be the quickest to his destination.

When the doors open again he’s off like a shot, brushing past bemused glaives on patrol. He stumbles into the infirmary. The on-duty doctor drifts towards him, alarmed, looking him over for injuries.

“Phoenix down.” Prompto pants.

“But we were instructed to—”

“The king is dying!” Prompto snaps. “Give it to me.”

The doctor scurries away to find the curative. Prompto eyes the clock on the wall, watches what could be Noctis’ last seconds tick away. His fingers drum on his pants. No time. No _time_.

The doctor returns, grasping a tuft of a golden feather in his hand. Prompto snatches it from him without a word, and sprints back to the elevator bank. Thankfully, the elevator he’d called down is still here.

As the elevator climbs higher, Prompto cradles the phoenix down close to his chest. The feather glows bright with magic, waiting to be used.

He bursts into the antechamber. Noctis’ assassin is bound and unconscious in one corner of the room, under the watch of a pair of crownsguard. Gladio and Ignis have brought Noctis off the balcony and into the room. Ignis is pressing his handkerchief to Noctis’ chest, but Prompto can tell it’s a fool’s errand. Noctis isn’t breathing. How long has it been since he stopped?

Prompto drops to his knees before them and slams the phoenix down over Noctis’ heart.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens. Magic ignites in Noctis’ chest, but he remains still and pale. Gladio’s eyes are wet, and Ignis looks positively shattered. All Prompto can think is if only he’d been a little faster, maybe they could’ve saved him.

And then Noctis is arching up, gasping for air, hands clutching at his chest. Prompto watches Noctis draw in one ragged breath after another, and it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

“Oh Gods. Thank the Gods.” Prompto gasps. He clasps at Noctis’ shoulder, reveling in the proof that Noctis is still alive.

“Noct. Noctis,” Ignis repeats his name like a prayer, running his trembling hands through Noctis’ hair. His hands are tacky with blood, making Noctis look more a mess, but Ignis can’t help himself.

Gladio is across from Prompto, and has one hand wrapped around Noctis’ wrist, thumb over the pulse point. He draws in a shuddering breath, crying silently.

“What—What happened?” Noctis rasps. His gaze flickers rapidly between the three of them as he struggles to make sense of the gap of time.

“You’re alright now,” Prompto promises, voice thick with tears. He takes Noctis’ hand in his own, pressing it to his cheek. Gods, his hand is freezing cold. They came _so close_ to losing him. “We’ve got you.”

~*~

Noctis had been dead for eight minutes, due to negligence of his role. In the ten years Noctis has been gone, Gladio has forgotten what it meant to be a Shield. He’d become a Sword, focused only on honing himself, becoming stronger, obliterating any daemons that ventured too close to the king’s people. Swords are useful, but the king has plenty of swords already. He _needs_ a proper shield. Someone to defend him, someone who can provide a haven of security. Someone who can sense when he needs a moment to himself, and guide him somewhere safe where he can compose himself without the threat of danger.

Gladio failed him last night.

Clarus is no longer here—he died with his king, _before_ his king, as Gladio should have—so it falls upon him to discipline himself.

As soon as he can, he makes an excuse to separate from the group. He leaves the Citadel and returns to the Amicita estate. He hasn’t been back here since that fateful day over a decade ago, when he’d piled into the Regalia alongside his friends. Back then, his only concern had been if he’d brought enough books along for what was supposed to have been a week-long trip.

His home doesn’t match up to the memories in his mind. The Niffs had known who they were; MTs had stormed the estate in search of him and Iris, seeking to cull the line of faithful Shields. The elements have gotten in through the smashed windows, leaving the once-vibrant carpets muddied and faded, wooden furniture spoiled by rainstorms. Gladio picks his way around overturned furniture, and tries not to think about how the walls are mottled with bullet holes. Iris had survived Insomnia’s fall. That’s what matters.

Gladio enters his old room. Spartan, save for the full bookshelf alongside one wall. He didn’t have the time for many hobbies growing up, nor the inclination to indulge.

Beneath his moth-eaten mattress is a box. He pulls it out, and lifts off the lid to reveal what’s inside. A scourge, his father called it. A thick leather handle, with six barbed, knotted ropes attached. He’s never had cause to use it before.

Gladio peels off his shirt, and shivers in the slight chill of the air. He hefts the whip in one hand with solemn resolve.                                           

His king had been dead for eight minutes; so it will be eight lashes against his skin.

The first strike stings, like a daemon had caught him in the back by surprise.

His skin breaks open on the third. He feels blood roll down from the open cut. He pictures Noctis, left to die alone, and the next lash is harder still.

At six lashes he has to pause. Bowed over, hands curling in the carpet fibers, he gasps for breath. He deserves this. As soon as Noctis had been coherent, he’d knelt by his side and apologized. The king had forgiven him, absolved him of all blame, but Gladio still feels unrest in his soul. Noctis couldn’t seem to grasp the depths of Gladio’s shame.

After the eighth lash, he drops the scourge. He should clean his blood off the bits of spiked metal; there’s a chance he’ll need it again. But for the moment, he just sits, feeling the welts on his back, sinking into the pain of it.

Then, the floorboards creak. Too lightly for a man.

Iris enters his room.

They haven’t spent enough time together, but now that there are no daemons left to kill, she’s strayed closer to his side than she has the past several years. The Long Night has shaped her into a formidable warrior. Still small, but built of compact muscle and with a steely resolve that rivals Cor’s. But despite everything she’s endured, she still maintains her sweet smile. Iris the Daemonslayer is still the same Iris who snuck cats inside their house to keep them out of the rain.

There’s no panic in her eyes at the sight of his bloodied back—she, too, is Clarus’ child.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Is all she says.

He’s infinitely grateful that it’s Iris, and her alone. Prompto, Ignis, and especially Noctis would be appalled. Horrified. This is not something that anyone else but them, the last two in the line of House Amicita, will understand.

Iris cradles a hi-potion in her hand. He turns away.

“I don’t need that.” He’ll bandage and clean the wounds. But he wants the pain to linger, wants the scars to remind him.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gladiolus.” She shoves the hi-potion at his face. “How are you going to defend King Noctis if you’re too sore and stiff to wield your sword?”

Still, Gladio hesitates.

“You can’t prioritize your need to feel guilty over his well-being.”

“I’m not.”

“So…?” She shakes the glass bottle, sloshing its contents around.

Begrudgingly, he accepts the hi-potion. He swallows it down in three large gulps. It’s bitter, but effective. In seconds he feels his pain dull, skin knitting back together. Streaks of drying blood on his back and the scourge now the only proof of what had transpired.

“Come on,” Iris bumps her shoulder against his. “Noct is waiting.”

~*~

Ignis is well aware that he’s hovering.

He can’t bring himself to stop.

If he pauses but a moment, then he’s thrust right back to the night of the gala, feeling the failing beats of his king’s pulse beneath his fingers. So he doesn’t stop. He irons Noctis’ clothes, and polishes the golden clasps that adorn his kingly raiments. He takes over Noctis’ meals, to the head chef’s chagrin, spoiling him with whatever favorites he can. The mundane tasks distract his hands and mind, and are soothing in their familiarity.

They’d come so close to losing him. Ignis has only felt such terror in his life twice before. When he’d been told the news of the Marilith attack and Noctis’ paralyzation, and when Ardyn had held a dagger to his unconscious leige’s throat. Noctis has had close brushes with death during their long journey, they all have, but there’s a difference between injuries scored in the heat of battle versus ones inflicted when Noctis is caught unawares. Noctis has fought Gods and won, and a simple bullet claimed his life. So simple to be ludicrous, and so unfair. Noctis has more than earned a long and happy life.

Ignis still can’t comprehend it. That anyone would ever want to harm Noctis, their king, the bringer of the dawn. They should bless him for every harvest, for every child that can grow up in a world free of daemons and war.

He’s developed a new habit in the past handful of days. In between his self-assigned tasks, he checks the armiger’s stock. They secured a second phoenix down from the medical wing—just in case—and had added a small collection of potions and other curatives that Ignis intends to expand further still, as soon as Noctis feels well enough to spare the magic. Ignis refuses to be caught so off guard again.

Noctis can sense each time Ignis dips into the armiger to take a look. He glares over at Ignis when he feels him rummage through it for the third time in one hour.

“You can go, Specs.” Noctis gestures to the stack of reports on his desk. “You’re antsy. Take the rest of the night off. I’m just getting through the rest of these and heading to bed.”

“I can stay.” He casts about for an excuse. “In case you have concerns. I have some thoughts on the crop surveys—”

“Which I’ll be more than happy to hear about tomorrow. I’m _fine_. I’m not going to fall apart the second you leave the room.”

Annoyance bleeds through his tone. Ignis winces. He’s not the only one that’s been finding excuses to remain at Noctis’ side. Gladio shadows him from room to room, rarely excusing himself for his own needs. Prompto fills every meal with ceaseless chatter, and shepherds him to meetings alongside Gladio. Noctis has always hated his need for security, his lack of privacy as a public figure, but they need to keep reassuring themselves that he’s alright. Ignis knows he will never forget Noctis’ last hitching gasp before he stopped breathing.

“Ignis, please.” It’s the weariness in his voice that makes Ignis concede.

“Very well.” Ignis draws himself up, and collects the thin folders he’d used as an excuse to drop in. “Tomorrow, then. Have a pleasant evening, Majesty.”

Noctis inclines his head, and Ignis slowly, reluctantly, trudges from the king’s rooms. He nods at the two crownsguard posted outside the door.

He showers. It’s still such a novelty, having power to spare for hot water.

Ignis then settles on the couch in his room at the Citadel, and goes over Noctis’ schedule for tomorrow. His time is choked with meetings, but there’s nothing for it. As slow as Insomnia’s recovery may seem, it requires a lot of activity behind the scenes to keep everything in motion.

Once he’s exhausted preparations for tomorrow, Ignis attempts to distract himself, in vain. He’s too restless to focus on a book, too wired to sleep.

He’s already bid Noctis good night. But...it can’t hurt to check in on him, can it?

It’s nearly eleven now. Noctis usually heads to bed around midnight. He’s been having some issues sleeping, stress giving him nightmares. Perhaps a soothing herbal tea will help ease him into pleasant dreams.

He prepares a pot of chamomile tea and snags two tea cups from the kitchens before he heads to Noctis’ rooms. The guards posted sentry don’t look surprised at all to see him again tonight, and let him inside.

“Noct?” He calls, softly. He sets the tea and cups down on the coffee table.

He finds Noctis slumped over on his desk. Ignis nearly panics, until he sees the rhythmic rise and fall of Noctis’ chest, hears the low whistle of his snores. Ignis drags a hand over his face. He is being ridiculous. They’d had a scare, to be sure, but Noctis is _fine_.

Ignis crosses over to his king, and gently shakes his shoulder.

“Noct, come on. You can’t sleep here.” Hunched over like this, he’ll aggravate his back if left to it.

Noctis mumbles something incomprehensible, and bats weakly at Ignis’ hand. There’s a wet spot of drool on the opened report beneath him.

“Come on, up you go.”

Noctis’ eyes crack open a sliver. More than half asleep, he lets Ignis steer him to his bedroom. Ignis would prefer if Noctis would change into something more comfortable for sleep, but he knows Noctis doesn’t have the energy for that right now. So Ignis helps him into bed, and after removing his shoes, Ignis drags the comforter over him, tucking it up to his chest.

Noctis curls on his side, and in moments his breathing deepens in sleep once more.

~*~

He just needs a few minutes alone. He’ll be fine if he can just get that.

Noctis is well aware that wanting a few minutes of solitude is what resulted in his brush with death not one week ago, but he’s not the first Lucian king too stubborn to learn from history.

He retreats to the same place he fled to as a child, mostly whenever he’d been upset with his father. The Citadel has several gardens and greenhouses, but the one tucked away on the 43rd floor has always been his favorite. Patches of Tenebraean sylleblossoms had been carefully coaxed into flowering amidst the willow and sakura trees. He used to gape at the koi as they swirled majestically around the multi-tiered pond, the gentle scent of blossoms embracing him.

The fish that used to entrance him have long since died, their remains choking the water’s current. The flowers have all shriveled, their stalks stringy and yellowed. The trees at least, though they stand hollow and dead, stand still, creating a familiar enough setting. Noctis sits in the dirt before the edge of the pond, and watches the stale water lap quietly against the bank.

His killer has a name; Luca Taylor.

The sentence for an attempted assassination is death. Noctis knows this. There’d been attempts made before, on his life and his father’s, albeit none as successful. Regis hadn’t hesitated to meter out the king’s justice upon those foolhardy men and women. He’d watched with hard eyes as Clarus took their lives.

The crownsguard locked Luca up in one of Insomnia’s still-functioning prisons. Just waiting for Noctis to give the order. Gladio will leap at the chance for vengeance—if Ignis doesn’t beat him there first. But Noctis has said nothing yet about Luca, despite all the probing questions about his fate tossed his way.

Because he knows Luca was right.

The Long Night, as they all call it, has left its marks. As much as everyone tries to downplay it—so grateful he returned at all in their lifetime, they made no mention of the decade he’d abandoned them for, save for Gladio’s quiet “Took you long enough, princess”—Noctis can see how it has worn on all of them. He sees it in the way Ignis rations out meals for the week to the last crust of bread, leaving nothing unused. The way Gladio’s head snaps up at every sudden, unexpected sound, hands twitching for a sword. The way Prompto, once so animated and bubbly in everything he did, has taken to sitting still, to conserve his strength for survival.

The way they all can’t sleep without a light on in the dark of night.

Noctis had nearly wept when he’d stepped out of Talcott’s truck to witness how years of slow starvation and constant war had left them so haggard and hollow-cheeked, shadows of the men they’d once been.

And it’s his fault. All they endured, all Luca suffered through. The deaths of Sarah and countless others.

He hadn’t been enough. He’d pressed his hand to the Crystal and begged for the power to end the daemons. He’d offered everything. If the Astrals had told him a blood price would be enough, he would’ve slit his wrists right there in Gralea.

But instead, the Crystal had taken him away from them to build his strength, so he’d stand a chance against Ardyn Lucis Caelum. While Eos had suffered, he’d been cucconed in the impenetrable protection of the Crystal. Not knowing hunger or paranoia or pain like any of them had.

He will never truly understand what it felt like, for any of them. He would’ve gladly lived those ten years in the darkness alongside them. He feels like he’s cheated his way to a happy ending. He doesn’t deserve it.

Gods, if anyone deserves it, it’s Luna, his father. They’ve done so much, given so much. They deserve to be here in the world they saved, not him. Not the lazy, weak little prince.

A pair of boots crunch over the dead plants.

“Noct?” Prompto’s voice sounds strained. “You in here, buddy?”

Noctis almost says nothing, selfishly wanting more time to himself, but his guilt at the worried edge to his best friend’s voice has him calling out.

“Here.”

Prompto rushes to him, scanning him over for any type of injury. When he finds none, he sits at Noctis’ side. He sends out a message to their group chat. Noctis’ phone buzzes in his breast pocket with the text alert. Prompto’s gaze flicks to it.

“You know, we’ve been looking for you the past hour or so. Calling you.”

Has it been that long? Noctis can’t tell. His sense of time has been skewed since he emerged from the Crystal; his imprisonment hadn’t felt ten years long.

Prompto digs out a stone from the sandy soil and tosses it. It hits the pond water with a heavy plop.

Prompto laughs, mirthless. “Gotta say that was pretty uncool of you, man. We’re still in panic mode, you know? Ignis was about ready to tear apart all of Insomnia with the glaives and everything.”

Guilt settles uneasily in his stomach, like a thick sludge. Noctis hugs his knees to his chest.

“Didn’t hear the phone. ‘m sorry.”

Prompto deflates some at his muttered, shitty apology.

“I get it. Just tell us next time, okay? Give your poor crownsguard some peace of mind.”

“Not just that.” Noctis sighs. “Prompto, I’m sorry for…for everything.”

“What are you talking about?” Prompto asks, with a bewildered tone that _has_ to be fake.

“Stop that,” Noctis shifts to glare at him. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know—”

“Noctis? Prompto?” Ignis’ voice rings out. He sounds out of breath. Gladio trails in behind him.

“Over here!” Prompto waves them over. Gladio and Ignis come to sit beside them.

“Why don’t you ever answer your damn phone?” Gladio grinds out, but Prompto speaks over him.

“Noct already apologized for that. And also for everything? Apparently?”

There’s a glance exchanged between the three of them that he doesn’t understand. Of course he can’t read them anymore. It’s been too long.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Noct.” Ignis says, and it’s that infuriatingly gentle tone of his that breaks him.

“Enough, please. You don’t have to coddle me, and pretend you don’t really resent me. You should never have had to wait so long for me to get out of the Crystal. I know what I am, okay? I know I’m a fuck up. A mistake. I know it, you guys know it, Luca Taylor knows it—”

“Whatever that _man_ said to you, I can assure you he’s incorrect.” Ignis says, with a deep severity.

“He isn’t.” A peal of hysterical laughter rips through him. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know. I was a pathetic prince, and I’m an even worse king. You should’ve—You should’ve just let me die.”

His statement sucks all the air from the room. Horror is mirrored on all three of his friends’ faces, but then they shift: Gladio, to anger, Ignis, to grief, and Prompto, to incomprehension.

“Noct, no…” Prompto croaks.

“How could you even say that?” Gladio asks, with a surprising lack of heat despite his palpable fury.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum.” Ignis takes Noctis’ head between both his hands, forcing Noctis to look him in the eyes. “I have known you since you were six years old. Not once have I ever doubted you, or thought you a mistake. I never wished you were anyone other than who you are.”

Noctis pulls away.

“I put all of you through so much.”

“We chose to go with you.” Gladio says. “To follow you.”

“Ever at your side,” Prompto reminds him.

“It’s not as if you chose to stay away from us. It was in the hands of the Astrals.”

“Yeah, but if I’d been stronger, or better, somehow, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me so long.”

“Don’t you get that we don’t _care_ about that?” Prompto says. Tears are gathering in his eyes. “Fuck, Noct. We’re so glad you’re back. We would’ve waited forever. And for you to go and say that you—that you wish you weren’t here—”

Prompto’s throat closes on the words, and he’s unable to continue.

“We mourned you.” Gladio picks up the conversation. “We knew you were still alive, we could still use the armiger and summon weapons, but it wasn’t the same without you there. We were so lost without you. We weren’t living, just...existing. Until you came back to us.”

Ignis shifts. “When you left us—no. When the Crystal took you from us, we splintered. Fighting together as a team felt wrong without you beside us. We separated. We were of better use spread out across Lucis, true, but the main reason we fractured is because we were not one whole without you, Noct. But we would find a way to meet up for your birthday. Every year.”

Prompto lets out a watery chuckle, swiping at his nose with his sleeve. “Six, do you remember that crappy little cake on his 26th? I thought you were going to kill us, Iggy.”

“Turns out powdered eggs and old flour don’t a good cake make,” Gladio grunts. “Just gives you the shits for days.”

“I did the best I could with what was available,” Ignis says, defensively. Then, he sobers. “But you must understand, Noct. We missed you not just because we felt we had a duty to our king. But because first and foremost you have always been our _friend_.”

Gladio and Prompto nod along with Ignis’ words.

And he’s—fuck. He’s crying now. Great ugly, heaving sobs that make his whole body shake. Prompto doesn’t hesitate to dive in for a hug, wrapping his arms around Noctis’ chest and burying his face in Noctis’ shoulder. Gladio slings his arm around Noctis’ shoulders, and Ignis wraps his arms around Noctis’ neck, pressing his face to Ignis’ chest. Surrounded by his friends, he lets himself go.

He cries. For all the people they’ve lost, for all his friends have had to endure. And lastly, he cries for himself. Finally giving himself permission to. He’s getting Ignis’ dress shirt all snotty and wet, but his chamberlain voices no complaints. Instead, they all hold him tighter still.

Noctis swallows thickly. “Guys, I’m…”

“I swear to the Six, Noct.” Prompto vows, voice muffled against Noctis’ shoulder. “If you try to apologize to us again I’m gonna punch you in the mouth.”

“No, I. I just wanted to say…”

He feels so loved.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Had no idea what to call this.
> 
> *slams fists on desk* where's all the king noct content, dangnabbit


End file.
